


A Play on the Heart Strings in 'A'

by shadowsamurai



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 20:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsamurai/pseuds/shadowsamurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he heard the news, he was wasn't sure how to handle it, other than stand gaping at his colleague like a fish out of water. He knew he looked stupid, he couldn't help it. What he had just been told...it couldn't be true. Not her, not now, it was just...inconceivable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Play on the Heart Strings in 'A'

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to and including 'Endgame', Season 8. Totally ignores season 9. Sort of ignores Endgame too.
> 
> All lyrics used belong to The Calling. They aren't in the right order, I'm afraid. While writing, the story came out in such a way that a reshuffling of the lyrics was in order. And Grace has an office...even though she didn't in season 8.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing things for a while and I promise I'll put everything back exactly how I found it when I've finished. Well, almost exactly how I found it. ;)

WtD-WtD-WtD-WtD-WtD-WtD

*You left me with goodbye and open arms  
A cut so deep I don't deserve*

He isn't a man prone to regrets. Sure, he's had his fair share of them, but he always tells people they are a foolish waste of time. Of course, he is one for 'do as I say, not do as I do' but still... He does believe that, that life should be lived however it comes at you, whether it's good, bad or ugly. And when he looks back at his life, he finds only one or two serious regrets. Unfortunately, they are massive ones, big enough to blot out the sun in his world, but that's beside the point. It's only one or two. Or at least it used to be... Now, though...now everything had changed.

*Well you were always invincible in my eyes  
And the only thing against us now is time*

When he heard the news, he was wasn't sure how to handle it, other than stand gaping at his colleague like a fish out of water. He knew he looked stupid, he couldn't help it. What he had just been told...it couldn't be true. Not her, not now, it was just...inconceivable. And so, without really thinking about it, which was how he lived his life mostly, he left the scene he was supposed to be working and went straight round to the hospital. He had to see for himself, see that it wasn't true. He knew he would walk into that room and find it either empty or a complete stranger staring back at him.

It wasn't empty, and the person in the bed was almost a stranger. He hadn't recognised her for a moment, her face pale, dark circles under her eyes. Only God knew how much make-up she had been wearing to cover that up, to hide it from the world...and from him.

They talked for a while, but he could see she was tired and he left, with a promise he would be back. She smiled, not believing him, but he held to it. Day after day, he's there, and he finds himself contemplating many things while in that room with her. Like what she means to him, what his life would be like without her. He knows she isn't going to die; she's strong and she's getting good treatment, but still...he contemplates. He wonders, though he tries not to do it while she's awake because she seems to know what he's thinking. He swears the woman's a mind reader.

*Could it be any harder to say goodbye  
Live without you  
Could it be any harder to watch you go  
To face what's true  
If I only had one more day*

Mostly he finds himself thinking about time, the inexorable march forwards, and he comes to realise that each second that passes is a second lost, a precious gem of time that will never come again, and suddenly he wants to make every second counts. He starts to change, or at least try to. For her. But she laughs at him at first, then becomes quite angry. She doesn't want him to change. She wants him to stay as he is. But he doesn't listen. He never does. And so he finds himself regretting all those lost moments, all those lost opportunities and chances, mostly with her.

*And how I wish that I could turn back the hours  
But I know I just don't have the power*

He never really thought about her romantically before. Sure, they flirted and he enjoyed it. He always noticed when she'd had her hair done, and the way her wardrobe changed over the years to more form-fitting clothes, which, of course, made him appreciate the form underneath said clothes, but still... Looking at her as an actually obtainable goal? No. Never crossed his mind. Until now.

And he wonders if it's just circumstance making his think that way, wonders if it's real. But the only way to tell that is with time, and he fears time is the one thing they don't have. She's holding up well, seems bright and cheerful when the others come to visit, but he can see the façade she's putting up, sees the exhaustion in her face as soon as they leave. She seemingly forgets he's there, so used to his presence she has become, that she allows him to see her in her most vulnerable state. And as he realises that, he's never felt so honoured in his life.

*I lie down and blind myself with laughter  
Well a quick fix of hope is what I'm needin'*

As her condition worsens, the treatment needing to be more harsh because the cancer is more stubborn than he is, he starts to fantasise. What would it be like to court her? Take her on a proper date. Sure, they'd had meals together, drinks together, but in a friendly way, a work way, never a date way. How would he react? The perfect gentleman, of course, and she knew he could be like that. He smiles. If he's truthful with himself, which didn't happen all that often, he wants to get her into bed, simply because he *knows* that is where he would surprise her. He's all gentleness and attentiveness, and they would have to spend a whole week under the covers just so he could convince her he was the same person. It's a thought that makes him grin like a lunatic, which makes her roll her eyes because she knows he won't tell her what he's thinking.

*Well I'd jump at the chance  
We'd drink and we'd dance*

He's taken to sitting on the bed with her, holding her to him as he reads to her. She's too weak to sit up on her own, too tired to read herself, and it breaks his heart. She's lost so much weight, he's never seen her looking so fragile, so frail and breakable before, and he's scared that if he squeezes her arm too hard, he really will snap it in two like a dry twig. And all of her hair has come out as well, her head wrapped in a soft floral scarf he bought her. Though he would never tell her, she looks old, but she also looks so beautiful in his eyes. He wouldn't tell her because she wouldn't believe him; about the old part, yes, but beautiful? She would scoff and turn away, and he knows there would be tears in her eyes, his comment only reminding her of her mortality.

So he doesn't say anything. Instead he reads, but when he knows her eyes are closed, he starts to make up a story. A typical story, about a man and woman. They meet, become friends, work together, get along fine. Somewhere along the way things change. They develop feelings and aren't too scared to see how things go. They date, a lot, they sleep together. They live happily ever after. She smiles into his chest, thinking it sounded almost like their story, or how their story should have been. But she doesn't say that. And neither does he. Instead, she asks him to tell it again. So he does, several times. And each telling is slightly different to the last, until by the end, she *knows* it's their story, and she would be surprised is she had the energy, but she doesn't. She's just so damned tired that she wants to cry but won't. Instead she sighs, the motion rattling her painfully thin frame, and he holds her closer. He's so warm and solid, and the beating of his heart is so steady that it lulls her into slumber.

*And I'd listen close to your every word  
As if it's your last, but I know it's your last  
'Cause today, oh, you're gone*

He feels her fall asleep, can tell with the rhythm of her shallow breathing, and he thinks he'll move in a few minutes. But something makes him stay, perhaps the odd notion in his head that she'll miss him if he goes. It certainly isn't because he's comfortable; he isn't. Somehow during story time, he's slipped down the bed a little, so he's halfway between sitting up and lying down, and he knows his back will scream blue murder at him in the morning. But that's the morning. As long as she's comfortable and peaceful, that's all that matters.

Or it is until he shifts in the night, his hand brushing her arm, and he's awake instantly. She's cold to the touch, an unnatural cold, and he knows. It's the cold of a lifeless body. But it can't be. He refuses to believe, pulling the blanket further around her in an attempt to warm her. It doesn't work, and the little voice at the back of his head asks him what the hell he was hoping to achieve. He knows he should call for help, alert someone, but he doesn't. He just stays as he is and holds her, staring into the inky darkness and seeing nothing but her face, hearing not the silence, but her voice.

*Could it be any harder  
(Yeah, fade away, fade away, fade away)  
Oh yeah yeah, could it be any harder to live my life without you?*

And in the morning, when the nurses find them, they are worried he has gone too. Until he blinks and shifts, causing one of them to scream in shock. But then he glares and there is no more noise from anyone. No one tells him to move, tells him she's in a better place, or even that it's for the best. They seem to realise that any words would be pointless with him, and they have no idea how right they are. Later there will be a time for words, most of them spoken by him. He knows this, and it's one of those stupid thoughts that ends in him wishing she was there so she could help him. He's never been good with all that touchy-feely crap, never been great at giving people bad news. But this...this is something else. He's never had to give *this* kind of bad news; last time, she did it.

*Could it be any harder  
I'm all alone, I'm all alone*

He feels as cold as she did at the end, and his mind seems just as empty. He delivered the news, got the team in one place to tell them all at once, and then just left. He couldn't deal with the looks on their faces, the pain in their eyes; he could almost hear the accusation in their thoughts – 'why didn't you save her?' It's ridiculous, he knows it is. It was a disease, a deadly one at that. There was nothing he could do, nothing more than he already did, being with her every spare moment he had. And while he wanted to tell her how he felt, he never did. Sure, he told her that story, and he was pretty certain she knew before the end, but still... He never actually said the words, and now he's finding the bitter seed of regret has burrowed past his heart and into his soul and is starting to grow into an acrimonious tree of black hate.

*Like sand on my feet  
The smell of sweet perfume  
You stick to me forever, baby*

He walks. After the funeral, after he has seen her laid into the cold, unfeeling ground, he walks. One foot after the other, step after step. He isn't sure where he's going, what direction he's heading, or even what the weather is like. All he knows is that there's a steady rhythm in his even strides, reminding him of her heartbeat. And before he knows it, he's in the building where he works...or worked. He isn't sure he can go back to it all, not without her. She's the fifth team member he's lost during the course of the last decade...six, if one counted the semi-departure of his second in command. And then, of course, there's the loss of his son... He just doesn't know if he can take it any more. He's strong, of course he is. Everyone knows that. But this is something else, something he just wasn't prepared for. The loss of his son hit him hard, but he had her to help him through, and now... He needs her help like he's never wanted it before.

*I wish you didn't go  
I wish you didn't go  
I wish you didn't go away*

And then he's sat in her office, his head in his hands, crying. He hasn't cried this much since he had to claim his son's body from the morgue. He doesn't quite remember how he got to her office, doesn't remember at all, but he doesn't care. It's warming and familiar, and for a brief moment, he allows himself the fantasy that she's still with him, that she's sat behind her desk working, her brow furrowed in concentration, glasses dangling from her hand, the same one she's using to prop her head up with.

Then suddenly, with a rough motion, he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, using the other to dry his nose. He has to pull himself together, but sat there, remembering her, he wonders if he really wants to. Not exactly sure what he's about to do, he puts his hands at either side, ready to push himself to his feet.

And stops when his hand brushes something cold, metallic...

Slowly, he looks to his left, and eyes the item he touched with a certain amount of detachment. He isn't sure where it came from – it certainly wasn't an object that would be found in her office, or in any part of their offices, for that matter – but he must have picked it up from somewhere. How long would it be, he wondered, before someone realised a gun was missing? How long would it be before someone came to check on him? If he's not as home, or at her place, it's pretty obvious to anyone with half a brain where he'll be. He must have picked the gun up on his way through the building, but he honestly can't remember getting it. He puts his hand on it and finds it oddly comforting. He picks it up and passes it from hand to hand, turning it over and over. Then he puts it to his temple, and takes it away again. Puts it under his chin and puts it down again.

What is he thinking? He puts it down hurriedly. She would be ashamed of him, of his cowardice. Or would she? Wherever she is, is she missing him? Is that even possible? Not that it matters. She isn't there any more. And *that* is what matters.

*To touch you again  
With life in your hands  
It couldn't be any harder, harder, harder  
(Fade away, fade away, fade away)*

The light turns into darkness as he closes his eyes and...

FIN


End file.
